


Evening Morning Night Morning

by wlpr (wendyloulou)



Series: Warrior/Mysterious Skin [1]
Category: Mysterious Skin (2005), Warrior (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendyloulou/pseuds/wlpr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving <a href="http://wlprocrastinate.livejournal.com/2011/11/13/">my old staff</a> from ff.net because of the porn purge they're having at the moment. This is part 1 of a Warrior/Mysterious Skin crossover that I did last year. Read notes for warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: If you think that the poor Neil McCormick character should be left in peace, or vehemently oppose the idea that Tommy of Warrior might be gay (and in general think he's a perfect human being, unable of of hurting people he loves), or non-con is your trigger -- don't read this fic.

_Evening Morning Night Morning_

Night falls on New York, quietly sweeping passers-by off the streets in the outer boroughs, drawing the tourists out onto the dirty sidewalks in the city. The sky turns violet, the pink lining brimming over the edge of the horizon.

It's getting cold. Neil can see his own breath, a weak cloud of steam dissipating into the air. The train is approaching, rumbling in the distance. The platform starts shaking under Neil's feet, and he shivers under the thin jacket, clutches the backpack closer to his chest, pulls his beanie down to cover the ears.

When the train is finally there, Neil jumps into the opening doors, nearly falling face down on the floor as he hits a stocky Mexican guy. The latter stumbles out of the car, and yells back in Spanish shaking a fist in Neil's direction.

The train is empty, save for a bag lady, crouching in the back, and a bulky figure wearing a dark parka, and a beanie hat pulled low over his eyes. The man is leaning back in his seat, staring out the window, too caught up in his thoughts to notice Neil staring. The soles of his trainers are braced against the ridge of the side-seat in front of him, touching the bottom of the black sports bag that sits on top of it.

The train leaves Brooklyn and crawls into Manhattan. At this hour, it's a long and uneventful journey. At every stop, the doors open to let in the cold air, but no passengers. As they pass Union Square the bag lady collapses in a fit of whooping coughs. Neil's eyes catch the string of blood running down her dirt smeared chin. He looks away and focuses on the pensive jock sitting across the passage instead.

The man is biting on his thumb, his gaze is still turned inwards, dark, deep-set eyes burning a hole through the blurry window. Neil looks his fill. He takes in the pointy patrician nose, sharp cheekbones, the curve of plush well-defined lips, the strong jaw-line. The man turns slightly, smiling at his thoughts, and catches Neil staring. Neil quickly looks down, pretends to study the frayed fabric of his backpack.

"What'cha staring at?" the man asks, his voice all sand and gravel, low and deep. Dark lavender-gray eyes are studying him, annoyed, piercing.

Neil shifts uncomfortably, but meets his gaze defiantly.

"I wasn't," he replies. "I was thinking, that's all."

The stranger turns to face the window again, produces a toothpick from his pocket and starts chewing on it, gazing absent-mindedly at the darkness outside.

"What's up with the nose?" he asks without looking at Neil. Neil catches a flicker of interest behind the mocking tone. He leans forward, crushing the backpack against his chest, and speaks quietly, only for the stranger's ears. "It's a present from one of my customers. Beat me into pulp, and raped me on Christmas Eve".

The stranger gives him a quick look, a blank stare, – no trace of the outrage or disgust Neil had anticipated.

"Did he pay you well for your trouble?" he croons, rolling the toothpick between his lips.

He stretches in his seat, strong shoulders moving under the layers of clothes. And Neil _wants,_ suddenly bitter at his own need, overwhelmed by the pull of it. He looks away, aware of how his face falls, unwilling to do anything about it.

He doesn't answer, just sits there, shoulders hunched, and waits for the next stop.

"How much did he pay you?" the weirdo repeats, and there are those eyes again, drilling through him.

"What?' Neil barks out. "You wanna to do it, too?"

He bares his teeth in a sneer.

"No," answers the man.

The train stops at 42nd street. The stranger gets up, grabs his bag, and walks to the doors.

"Are you coming?" he asks, before stepping out.

Neil blinks, processing the words, stumbles to his feet, cursing, and follows the man out of the car.

_Morning._

The water is warm, the suds rising up to Neil's chin. They make the marks on his neck sting, but he likes the feel. He's leaning against the back of the tub, his heels digging into the faux marble of the bottom. His hand works under the water, fast, sure strokes, bringing him closer to his orgasm. He gets off on the memory of the night.

_Night_

Neil's unexpected date is named Tom, but he wants Neil to call him Tommy. And Neil obliges.

Tommy fumbles in the dark, and dim wall-lights cut through the darkness in the living-room of his hotel suite. Neil takes a quick look around while the guy drops his old bag on a fancy chair, and goes to check messages on the hotel line. He heads to the back of the room, and switches on the TV, but it immediately goes mute. Neil takes note of the expensive layout, but refuses to be intimidated. He's seen even better in his own time.

In an instant, Neil gets rid of his outerwear and descends on his date, who is on his way to the bar counter. Neil knocks the man's hat off, wrings his fingers in the short dark hair, pulling him in for a kiss, biting into the amused half-smile.

Neil yanks the zipper of Tommy's parka open, pushes it off his shoulders, his hand finding its way under the man's sweatshirt, touching the hot, smooth skin. He manages to cram this much into one impossible second, getting more and more desperate, quickly running out of breath.

Tommy gives a surprised chuckle, cups Neil's ass, helping him straddle his thighs, makes a couple of steps and – out of balance – lands them both on the leather sofa in the center of the living-room.

Neil suddenly feels all-powerful. He pushes the man's arms up from his waist to his shoulders and relishes in the embrace, feeling the strong arms close around him, holding him tight but gentle. Neil kisses him hard and sweet, sucking on his upper lip, nipping lightly at the bottom one. Tommy closes his eyes, and lets Neil lick into his mouth in confident, light thrusts. Neil moans contentedly and draws Tommy's tongue in, sucking on it, wet and impatient. He wants to overwhelm, make his lover groan, make him come just from the kisses, and it escapes him once again how he gets himself frantic, grinding against the soft gray of Tommy's track pants, setting just the perfect pace for both of them.

The man beneath him groans into Neil's mouth, his cock rock-hard against Neil's, his hips rolling up. Neil gently squeezes the back of Tommy's head, his other hand lifting up the hem of his sweatshirt, brushing against the dark chest hair, then caressing the powerful muscles of enormous shoulders. Neil can tell Tommy is close. His hold on Neil tightens, pressing the agile frame harder into the washboard muscle of his chest and stomach, his body meeting the thrusts of Neil's hips half-way.

Neil feels his own orgasm building up. He breaks the kiss and opens his eyes. He wants to _see_ before he's finished. He catches a glimpse of dark eyes that look down and away, hiding behind the heavy, puffed eye-lids, sweat and tears gathering in the corners, spilling onto the flushed skin of the cheeks. Raw swollen lips, slightly parted, forming an almost perfect oval, soft breath warm against Neil's skin.

Neil lifts his hand and touches, unthinking, caressing the softness of the lips, brushing the back of his hand against the wet ridge of the cheekbone, drawing a deep sigh from Tommy's chest. And he feels a cord pop in his own chest. He falls down, kissing again, crushing his lips against Tommy's mouth, devouring, greedy.

"Baby," Neil whispers between kisses, "my baby, mine..."

The man squeezes Neil in his arms and the pressure is almost too much, forcing the air out of Neil's lungs. Neil yelps, Tommy groans, shuddering and resting his forehead against Neil's shoulder. Neil wraps his arms around the broad shoulders, draws him in, and Tommy's breath is hot and ragged against his skin, his release warm against his buttocks.

Neil changes the angle a little bit, still looking for his own release, but trying not to press over Tommy's spent cock.

"I'm your first," he whispers, brushing light kisses against the dark short hair, "I know it...I'll fuck you so good...Oh fuck, let me...let me..."

He doesn't get a chance to finish, though, as he feels the strong arms grab his waist, and in one smooth powerful shove Tommy has got him sitting on the floor, his legs spread, and his erection threatening to rip through the fly of his jeans.

Tommy doesn't look any better: hair mussed, and sweatshirt pulled up to his underarms, rumpled, and with a stain of sweat on the chest. There's another wet stain – this one on the crotch of his track pants, where the drying gray fabric clings to the line of his cock. But what strikes Neil the most is the look on the guy's face – frustration mixed with disgust, and a weird blissed-out half-smile curving the corners of his lips up.

Tommy traces his hand through the wet hair, wipes the sweaty forehead with his sleeve, and pulls at the clinging fabric between his legs in a surprisingly childish gesture.

Neil can't get enough of the sight, he slides a hand inside his jeans and starts tugging at his dick, feeling a hot wave surging up his belly.

"Will ride you better than any of your girls...You won't regret it...", he breathes out, the words tumbling down before he can bite his tongue and stop them.

Tommy cringes, snorts out a pained laugh, and hides his face in shame.

"I won't regret what? My dick up your ass? Or yours up mine?" He gives Neil a look full of such scorn, that it pins him to the carpet and stops his hand mid-movement.

It dawns at him that he has apparently overstayed his welcome. The tenderness and want he's been feeling for Tommy – the joy at having him – are draining out of Neil's body, now being replaced with sudden regret. Had it happened a few months ago, he would have snapped back with sarcasm and condescension.

But, not after what happened last Christmas. Neil can sense the aggression radiate from the man in front of him, and the reality switches off.

For a sickening second, he's back on the bottom of a bathtub in the Brighton Beach apartment, blind with pain drilling through his scull, unable to breathe, seeing his own blood flowing down the drain, feeling the thrusts pounding into him, methodical, relentless. There is no escape. They'll destroy him, break him apart, piece by piece, until he becomes non-existent.

Neil freezes where he is, his breathing stops and eyes widen in terror. Then he snaps to his feet, trembling like a small animal sensing a predator. He heads for the exit, looking at his feet, too terrified to meet the eyes of the man on the sofa.

What he needs now is to get away from this impersonal room, from the threatening presence in front of him. All he can think about is Wendy. He _wants_ the familiar smell of his own bed, he wants Wendy's embrace. _Now._

Desperately trying to get control of his breathing, not to appear too scared, he bends down to collect his belongings from the floor, and then darts for the door. That's it. A few more steps, and he'll leave the nightmare behind.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn't make it.

Instead he's caught in an embrace so powerful it lifts him up.

Neil's breath hitches, his feet kicking the air, and he writhes against what seems like a wall of heat at his back. He manages to land a kick and the man behind him grunts, takes another step, and together they fall back on the soft leather. Neil pushes and kicks with all his force, blind and deaf to anything apart from the fight and entranced by terror.

But, he still feels. The grip on his waist gentles, and the dry heat of a palm envelops his jaw, forcing him to turn, soft plush lips brush a kiss against his own.

Neil stops in his tracks, confused, not knowing what to expect anymore. Tommy deepens the kiss, forces Neil's mouth open, and plunders it gently, meshing their breaths. Neil gasps for air, blood pumping in his ears, but his body relaxes, lets Tommy have it his way.

Once again Neil is being manhandled, lifted up in the air. Tommy holds him up with one arm, and drags Neil's pants down. In a second, Neil is naked below the waist. In another, his t-shirt lands on the floor. Tommy grabs him by the waist and turns him around, almost effortlessly, as if Neil were nothing more than a doll. Neil's head bobs with the movement, a wave of heat surges through him, and there he is, back to the square one, straddling Tommy's thighs, palms resting on his enormous shoulders. Only this time Neil hesitates, waiting.

Tommy strokes Neil's chest and belly, hands brushing over the bruises that Neil would hide if he could.

Finally, Tommy looks up at Neil.

"What did he do to you?" The violet-gray mélange of tenderness and anger burns through to Neil's heart, and he finds himself unable to look away. He closes his eyes instead.

"Bashed me in the head a coup' times, broke my nose, gave me a concussion, hit my head against the bathtub ridge, kicked me with his feet, rap..."

Tommy cuts him short, cupping his jaw and pulling him into a kiss. Then he nudges Neil up from where he sits on his thighs, and begins to stroke and squeeze the bruises on Neil's torso, soon adding his lips into the caress.

He latches onto the wine-colored skin, sucking hard and wet, massaging Neil's stomach in slow circles. The rhythmic pressure gets Neil hard in seconds, he spreads his legs wider, reaches out for his own cock, and starts to tug at it. Tommy is petting and squeezing Neil's buttocks, matching the rhythm to the strokes he lays on Neil's stomach. His fingers brush gently inside the crease of Neil's ass, and Neil moans, pushing into the touch. Tommy curses under his breath and drags him closer, squeezing hard at the muscle of his hip, causing pain and leaving bruises on top of the healing ones. The pressure of Tommy's hand on Neil's neck pushes him down into the kiss, and Neil, once again, is drowning in the deep-set eyes, feeling their flame and darkness wash over him.

In a last attempt to break free Neil braces his hand against the solid flesh beneath him, tries to push against the tight muscle of Tommy's shoulder, and breathes out, gasping for air.

"Wait, I'm going to..."

Tommy pushes him further up against the leather arm, then slides down between his thighs, lifting one of Neil's legs up on his shoulder, and starts sucking on the black and blue of bruises between Neil's legs, ignoring his hole and jumping cock, and focusing on the crux between Neil's ass and hip.

He latches on an especially nasty bruise and squeezes Neil's thigh gently, and this hot and relentless suction draws the pain out of Neil, breaks his heart, and shuts his mind down. Neil trembles and tugs frantically at his cock, and Tommy reaches up and covers Neil's hand with his own, without pressure, just feeling the movement.

Neil cries out, overwhelmed by the sensation, almost in pain. He looks down at Tommy; their eyes meet, and a wave of heat crushes over Neil. The image of the empty-eyed monster in Brighton Beach apartment shatters like glass, and the tide drags away the shards, leaving Neil alone, in the darkness, blissed-out, in peace. He comes over his stomach in long, hot spurts. Then, he closes his eyes and falls into an empty, dreamless sleep, held tight against Tommy's chest.

Neil wakes up to the dead of the night, in an anonymous hotel bedroom, and, for a bit, can't figure out where he is. He reaches for the man spread on the other end of the king size. Tommy is in a deep sleep, a blanket kicked off to Neil's side, his chest rising and falling evenly. The curtains are open, and the room is filled with the light from the street. Neil takes in the dark stains of tattoos on Tommy's shoulders and stomach. The air in the room is cold and dry. Neil makes up his mind. He scoops to Tommy's side, grabs the blanket and throws it over their heads, covering them both.

It's much better this way, warm and calm. Neil presses his face against Tommy's chest, stills for a minute, listening to the pump of his heart, and then goes down between Tommy's legs. He carefully pulls at Tommy's boxers, lowering them just a little, easing his cock out. He gently touches the hair around it, warms the cold skin with his palm and his breath. Neil caresses Tommy's cock and then takes it in his mouth. He wants to be gentle, wants to tease but Tommy sighs and stirs in his sleep, spreads his legs wider, opening to the touch, and Neil just wants to take him apart, make him beg, make him weak with pleasure. He groans and sucks hard, gripping firmly at the base of Tommy's cock.

Tommy freezes, stops breathing for a second, and an unsure hand presses at Neil's forehead, tries to push him away. Neil knows he's won. Tommy could simply grab Neil by the hair and yank his head away, but he hasn't. Neil puts up a good fight, he pins Tommy's wrist to the bed and presses on it, making his point. Tommy's cock thickens in his mouth. Neil moans louder, sucks faster, loosing the rhythm, slurping against the wet skin. Tommy curses, propping himself up on his elbow and throws the comforter off.

Their eyes lock in the dim light coming from the window. Neil lets go of Tommy's wrist, and focuses solely on the suction, trying to relax and take him as deep as he can. Tommy reaches out, his hand cupping Neil's face and his thumb pressing gently at Neil's upper lip. Neil squeezes his eyes shut, sighing contentedly, and in a few seconds feels Tommy's release spurt on the back of his throat. Neil sucks him through it, until his cock softens against Neil's tongue. Then, he pulls himself up sprawling on the bed. He takes Tommy's hand, puts it on his own aching dick, meshing their fingers, and brings himself over with a few hard strokes.

They lie together, feeling raw and tender, eyes locked, limbs entwined. Neil leans in and kisses Tommy's face, the soft skin near the eyes, his hollow cheeks, and bites gently at the tip of his nose. Tommy gives a quiet laugh and kisses back, lips brushing against the stubble on Neil's chin.

"You'll have to be out by seven." Tommy says into the hair behind Neil's ear. "My father is flying in this morning. There's some money on the bedside table. I want you to take it."

And those words hurt a little, but it's nothing Neil can't handle. He simply nods his acquiescence and closes his eyes.

_Morning_

The hotel alarm clock chirps 5 a.m. Neil, his hair still slightly damp from the shower, but fully dressed, sits down on the bed next to Tommy.

Tommy is fast asleep, laying on his stomach, looking like an exhausted child. Neil presses a kiss on Tommy's shoulder and covers him with the comforter, feeling incredibly stupid and sentimental.

Time to go. He puts his beanie on and stares at the money Tommy has left under the alarm clock. After one long second, he makes up his mind. He opens his backpack, tears a page out of his notebook, and scribes his phone number on it. He folds the paper in two, and places it on top of the bills.

The steward in the elevator greets him with a studied smile and a good-morning, and Neil catches himself smiling back. The lobby is alive in spite of the early hour. People are checking in, some are waiting outside for their rides, stifling the yawns, traveling bags in hand. A boy in a dark jacket and a funny hat slips outside unnoticed.

Neil heads down Broadway in the direction of 42nd street. He plans to catch a Queens-bound F, get home, take a shower, wake up Wendy, and tell her about what happened. He will also need to grab the books for his morning class and put on some fresh clothes.

There are very few people in the streets, save for the police, the garbage removers, and occasional suits. The screens of Broadway are glaring, and the six-floor-high signs stand out against the dimly lit sky.

On his way to the subway entrance, Neil stops in his tracks, and his jaw drops in disbelief. Hitched above a giant LED screen running the news is a black and white poster from which Neil's lover, fifty-feet-tall, stares defiantly at the world, wearing nothing, but black boxers and Everlast gloves. He is standing chest-to-chest with the infamous tanned Russian, and the black, gold-plated belt printed between them casts a dubious glow over their ripped torsos.

Neil closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to get rid of the vision. It does not go away. He snorts and reaches out for his phone. It's 5: 15 in the morning, but he is calling Wendy. _Right this very moment._


	3. Chapter 3

The phone rings at two in the morning. Neil gropes in the darkness, finds the light switch and then stares at the phone screen hesitating, not recognizing the number.

Wendy, who just woke up next to him, cringes at the light and hides under the comforter, leaving only the tip of her upturned nose visible. She peeks at Neil from under her cover, looking amazingly like a disturbed little bird.

Neil finally picks up. Wendy hears the man on the other end speak, and Neil sits up abruptly in bed. Soon he gets up and starts pacing the room, running a hand nervously through his hair.

"Now?" he asks and glances at the wall clock. "Okay, I'll be ready in a few..."

The rain is whipping the windows of the black limo stuck in traffic on Broadway. Neil finishes a not-so-bad whiskey from the mini-bar and stares at the cars outside. They've been moving at the pace of a slug for the past half-an-hour. At this moment Neil hates Manhattan, the only place where you can get caught in traffic at 3 in the morning.

Dawn is descending upon the city. The sky grows lighter by the minute. Neil starts falling asleep in the stuffy warmth of the car. It's not going to work. He gives himself a slap on the face, shakes his head and zips up his jacket. He's going to walk, he tells the driver. They're just a couple of blocks away from the hotel.

It's not that much of a walk, though. It's a run, as the rain keeps pounding, and Neil can't afford to get soaked, not tonight.

The reception has got a card-key in Neil's name on hold. One of the girls shows him to the elevators, a look of polite indifference on her face. Neil remembers where to go, but says nothing.

It's been almost forty-eight hours since he left this hotel room, but nothing's changed. It's still in semi-darkness, the TV is still on, the morning anchors conversing in mute mode on "Fox 5". And the air of loneliness still hovers over the fancy décor.

Neil hangs his wet jacket on one of the chairs, kicks off his shoes and heads for the bathroom. He takes his time drying his hair and face on the towel and mentally scolds himself for being a coward. He doesn't understand why coming back to this room, to Tommy, is all of a sudden so difficult for him.

When he finally enters the bedroom, it is already light outside. Tommy is asleep in his bed in the same exact spot where Neil left him two days before. The comforter is again kicked off to the side, and the curtains are still open.

The only difference between today and the last time he was here is that now Tommy is wearing a grayish wife-beater, and his right wrist is in a cast, his fingers red and swollen.

Neil hesitates, torn between an impulse to just quietly slip outside and close this door behind him, and an equally powerful pull to join the slumbering body on the bed. It's okay. He'll compromise. He lies down next to Tommy, but doesn't remove his clothes.

For a brief moment, he marvels at how still Tommy's face is in the dim light coming from the window, its big, well-defined features softened by the pre-dawn shadows, his eye-lashes throwing a crescent-shaped shade on the white skin of his cheeks, his lips slightly parted and vulnerable.

"Hi," Neil says quietly and runs his fingers through the short hair on top of Tommy's head.

Tommy opens his eyes easily, the dark gray focuses on Neil.

"What time is it?" he asks, not moving. Neil sees the imprint of the pillow-case on his cheek when he speaks.

"Half past four."

"Have you been here long?"

"No," Neil sighs, as Tommy reaches out and pulls him into a half-embrace, throwing one leg over Neil's hips and nuzzling his shoulder.

The weight of Tommy's body presses Neil into the bed, and it feels strange, and calm, and almost like home.

Sleep creeps up on Neil, he turns his face into the pillow and closes his eyes. He'd still very much like to clarify why he's come back to this hotel suite, but his eyes burn, and his limbs feel heavy.

Tommy rolls onto his back, rolling Neil on top of him as he goes. Tommy's hand slides down Neil's side, and it's almost a caress. It's the last thing that crosses Neil's mind before the dark engulfs him.

He wakes up what seems like a day, but – judging by the clock – is less than an hour later. The curtains are drawn, the noise of Broadway is a quiet hum outside the window.

The bed shakes slightly, and Tommy slides under the cover next to Neil, smelling faintly of toothpaste and aftershave. Neil wriggles closer, rests his head in the crux of Tommy's shoulder. Tommy's hand crawls under Neil's t-shirt and rests, a hot and solid weight, against his stomach.

"Where's the belt?" Neil asks, suddenly remembering. "Can I have a look?"

"My dad has it," Tommy answers.

Neil stares at him for a second and snorts out a laugh.

"Your dad has got the belt, and all you've got is _this?"_ He presses his cheek against the rough surface of the cast.

"I don't need it," Tommy says simply. "I'd rather he put it above the fireplace."

"Does it hurt?" Neil asks, touching the swollen fingers peeking from under the cast. "By the look of it, it should."

"No more than a torn ass," Tommy chuckles, staring at Neil mockingly.

"Or a dislocated shoulder, if you ask me," Neil leers back and disentangles himself from the embrace.

He sits up on his heels and looks around, gathering his thoughts.

"Anyway, are we doing it or what?" he asks, feeling uneasy.

Tommy shakes his head and smiles wryly.

"Oh," Neil raises a sardonic eyebrow. "So we're not doing it. The same way we didn't do it the other day?"

He gets up and stands in front of the bed, looking questioningly at Tommy who looks away.

Neil's hair is sticking in all directions, and his clothes are rumpled. He is sweaty and tired, having spent a sleepless night, and the uncertainty starts to really get on his nerves.

"Are you saying you dragged me here in the middle of the night to spend some quality time together?"

Tommy says nothing, motherfucker, just stares at Neil from where he's lying on the bed, chewing on his lower lip and considering Neil's words. He's everything Neil wants in a man, and he's completely, utterly inaccessible.

"Well," Neil shrugs, suddenly exasperated. "I don't mind, really. You've got a nice room. I like the bedsheets, they're quality. And you're an okay guy. You're into sports. I like that. But, as it doesn't look like I'm here for pleasure, I'd really like to see some money."

"Oh, don't you start! Please..." Tommy groans, levering himself off the bed.

He walks out of the room, brushing past Neil, who stares at his back, feeling anger boiling up in his chest. The stupidity of the situation is driving him mad.

"This is fucking ridiculous!" Neil mumbles as he follows Tommy into the front room. He clenches his fists, annoyed at himself for being so affected by the treatment Tommy's giving him.

Tommy stops at the bar counter, his back turned to Neil, as if trying to hide from the confrontation.

"Look," he begins, pouring himself a glass of water and emptying it one gulp. "I'm just fucking tired, okay? I just had a most ridiculous week... I don't even know why I called..."

"Never mind", Neil snaps. "I'm already leaving."

He starts putting on his shoes, reaches for his jacket on the back of a chair.

"I've been here since four. So you owe me what? Three hundred?" he says, checking his watch.

Tommy glares at him, grabs his duffel from the sofa, fishes out a beat-up wallet and throws it at Neil, who catches it, smiling.

It's old, the leather is frayed and cracked on the corners. Neil wants to keep it, run his fingers over the worn-out surface. He opens it instead, cards through the cash department, pulls out three hundred-dollar bills, and throws the wallet back at its owner. Naturally, he aims at the face. Tommy bats it off, not even bothering to look where it lands.

"Piece of trash," Tommy mumbles, as he turns to leave, escaping again.

"Pussy," Neil bites back, loud and clear.

Tommy's back tenses for an instant, but he just rolls his shoulders, shaking it off, and disappears in the bedroom. Unaffected.

It's over. And it's so fucking infuriating it makes Neil's head swim. Anger shoots through his body like physical pain. He wants to grab the back of Tommy's wife-beater and yank it down, maybe choke him a little. He wants to claw out of his own skin.

Neil bursts into the bedroom, not even seeing clearly where he's going. He jumps on Tommy who starts turning to face him. Neil is fast. Experiencing a wild deja-vu from two days ago, he pulls at Tommy's hair, this time with viciousness, yanking his head back, and Neil's fist connects with Tommy's nose, sending a jolt of pain through Neil's arm and shoulder.

Tommy grunts, blood splatters over Neil's knuckles, and, a second later, Neil is flying over his head, not even remembering being sent down by anything tangible, like an arm or a foot. He lands with a thump on the carpeted floors, to another excruciating jolt of pain, this one in his head.

"You little faggot," Tommy growls, clutching at his nose, stumbling backwards, glaring at Neil in controlled rage. "I'm supposed to be leaving in two hours!"

Neil laughs, feeling liberated by his anger, and lashes out again. His head is clear. All he needs to do is get to Tommy's bruised hand.

He snaps back to his feet and once again jumps on Tommy who's definitely recovered from the shock and is pushing Neil away with an amused chuckle. And Neil simply squeezes the swollen fingers of the cast-encased hand that presses against his chest, trying to keep him at distance. Tommy growls, and Neil can hear an actual pain in his voice. Encouraged, he begins pounding Tommy's torso with his fists, which feels a lot like punching a moving, breathing wall of concrete, and hurts just about the same.

Tommy isn't hitting back. He simply retreats to the bed, blocking Neil from getting to his face again, but allowing access to the rest of his body. He shakes slightly every time Neil's fist connects with his ribs or shoulders, and little _ohs_ and _ahs_ escape him in what Neil's brain suddenly registers as a breathless, helpless laughter. He peers at Neil from behind his hands, a warm and amused look in his eyes.

A wave of tenderness crushes Neil as a landslide. It goes straight to his crotch, engulfs his mind, and explodes a boiling bubble in his chest – all at once. Neil sees white, his knees almost buckle, and his dick throbs so hard it makes him wince and sway away from Tommy.

He stumbles into the bathroom, grabs a hotel towel and watches it change its color from light blue to wet indigo under the flow of cold water.

In the bedroom he drops on the floor next to Tommy who's sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to clean his bloodied face with hotel tissues. He scowls at Neil, but – thanks God – doesn't push him away.

Neil slithers between Tommy's legs and starts wiping the blood off his lips with the wet towel. Neil's hand, braced against Tommy's knee, acquires a mind of its own and begins to crawl forward, sliding under the leg of Tommy's boxers, brushing on the inside of his thigh. Tommy's eyes follow the movement and then stare directly at Neil, pupils blown, the usual intense but quiet burn of his gaze suddenly flaring up the strength of a wildfire.

Neil is gone. He couldn't stop now even if his life depended on it. He brushes the towel against Tommy's lips and presses a chaste kiss on the clean, wet skin that tastes remotely of blood. Tommy freezes, neither rebuffing, nor encouraging him.

In a lust filled haze, Neil pushes Tommy farther on the bed. Tommy goes easily, not a word of protest. Neil pulls Tommy's boxers down to his knees and, for a second, stares ravenously at his cock, heavy and blood-filled.

He barely remembers to pull the condoms and lube out of his pocket before his clothes end up on the floor. Neil tears the foil packet and starts rolling the condom down his own cock that is as hard as a warm, wine-colored rock in his hand.

In his mind he's already balls-deep in Tommy's ass, pounding him into the mattress, catching the moans off his lips, biting into his neck.

In reality, Tommy stares at him, perplexed, and then makes a move to lever himself off the bed.

Well, maybe it's not happening tonight.

Neil falls to his knees and with a muffled, "Baby, please...", buries his face in Tommy's crotch. He swallows Tommy's cock and deep-throats him until he's out of breath and dizzy with it. Tommy is panting above him, on the edge of orgasm, his expression as broken and confused as before.

Neil reaches hurriedly for his supplies, annoyed at how his hand is shaking as he rolls a condom down Tommy's cock, already leaking and curving up to his stomach.

There's no time to prepare himself properly. He rushes on like a hunter, chasing an elusive prey that might disappear if the moment is lost. He pours the lube on his fingers and shoves in three at once, wincing at the pain. Then, he strides Tommy's thighs and lowers himself on his cock. Or tries to.

This is when he remembers that he was raped and hasn't had sex in three months.

Hurt is an understatement.

It feels like someone is shoving a heated rod up his ass. It catches at his skin and won't go any deeper no matter how hard he tries to relax. At one moment, he's afraid he might actually split in two if he doesn't stop. He gasps in panic, but keeps pushing down, relentless.

"I fucking hate you, you fucking coward!" he grits out, tears rolling down his face. "You fucking beg me to get here in the middle of the night, because you're fucking lonely and you fucking need this, and then you just fucking backpedal!"

Tommy props himself up on one elbow and reaches out for him, his warm palm stroking Neil's stomach. Neil bats it off, infuriated, then changes his mind and grips at it with all his force, nails digging into Tommy's skin.

Tommy grunts and stirs beneath him, and Neil realizes he's finally there, sitting tightly on Tommy's cock, sheathed to the hilt. Exhausted and unable to move, he opens his eyes and breathes out, "That's me taking the initiative for you. Lie back and relax. Save your face."

The pain dulls down gradually. Tommy is looking at him with tenderness and regret. Neil is completely exposed, vulnerable under his gaze, but feels strangely peaceful. And safe.

Tommy's cock inside him still threatens to split him up, but somehow is less difficult to bear. It is alive and throbbing, pulsating in Neil's body - once, twice, three times - sending shivers down to his core. Neil trembles as a butterfly on a pin, lets the pulse carry him, and suddenly comes all over Tommy's stomach and chest, sending the white spurts as far as Tommy's chin.

They stare at each other in silence, and Neil wants to punch Tommy in the nose once again, just to erase the look of complete stupid awe off his face.

Tommy sits up in bed, takes Neil in a gentle embrace, supporting him and holding him close. He kisses Neil's face. Neil turns away, still angry, and pretends he doesn't want any of this. But Tommy is chasing his lips, whispering hushed nonsense against Neil's skin. And Neil gives in and is now being kissed silly, into oblivion, where he feels nothing, but Tommy's lips on his own and Tommy's cock, still throbbing inside him.

Having made sure that Neil is finally relaxed and pliant in his arms, Tommy quickly lowers him on the bed. He slides out, squeezes the remaining lube on his cock, and pushes back in.

It's fast and painful, and Neil quickly goes numb where it hurts the most. And Tommy hovers over him, his face and neck flushed bright red, the blush spreading rapidly over his chest and shoulders. He bends down, brushing kisses against Neil's lips, silencing Neil's moans, as he picks up the pace.

Neil's being pushed up the bed by the brutal rhythm, and soon his head starts thumping into the headboard. He laughs hoarsely, and Tommy grabs his hips and drags him back, pulling him deeper onto his cock.

Tommy's face is screwed as if it were as painful for him as it is for Neil. With a frustrated grunt, he sits up abruptly, changing the angle, and starts fucking Neil deep and slow, and his hand presses on Neil's stomach, below the belly button, as if he were trying to feel himself inside Neil.

Neil watches him run out of breath and falter, speeding up again, but loosing it, and realization hits him as a bolt of lighting.

"You fucking worship me," he breathes out in disbelief. "You're in fucking love... And you're fucking petrified...Did it get to you when I told you about the rape? Or did it happen when you just saw me? I bet it did. Because this is how it hit me. At first sight..."

And this is over before Neil's finished talking. Tommy pulls out with a moan, drags the condom off, and, after a few frenetic strokes, comes over Neil's cock and belly.

Then, Tommy bends down and kisses him, sweet and gentle. This is something Neil doesn't expect, but deeply appreciates. He cups Tommy's face in his hands, pulling him closer, so that Tommy is lying on top of him. He is big and steaming as a burning stove, and Neil's body warms up to the bone. Neil holds him tight, stroking his hair, and tells himself not to enjoy the intimacy too much, as this is not something they're going to share in the future. Still, he finds it hard to believe that from now on his life is going to be anything other than loving Tommy.

They part hurriedly.

Neil is falling into a slight, but very inconvenient state of depression. He gets more and more difficult with every passing minute. At first, he doesn't want to get up, or move at all, for that matter. Tommy has to manhandle him off the bed and push him into the shower. Afterwards, Neil doesn't want to get dressed. Finally, he refuses to leave.

He wants to get back to where they just made love and fall asleep for the rest of his life. Tommy, who is on the phone with his father and swears to him to be downstairs in fifteen minutes, gently forces Neil back into his clothes. Neil is inclined to show some resistance, but is stopped by a completely unexpected and genuine look of sadness on Tommy's face.

Tommy empties the cash from his wallet into the pocket of Neil's jacket. Neil accepts grudgingly, only because he's being kissed into submission once again. Not surprisingly, he doesn't want the money. He wants Tommy to tell him something that would make him feel less alone. Tommy never says anything of the sort. At least, he's being honest.

Tommy sees him to the elevator, even though he still has to shower and finish packing. He makes Neil promise him to take a taxi home, and attempts to give him another kiss before the elevator arrives.

Neil can't take this tenderness anymore. He steps aside abruptly and is grateful that Tommy doesn't follow this time.

He leans against the wall, his eyes glued at Tommy's chest where the tail of a tattoo is peeking from under the grayish fabric of his wife-beater. Angered at himself for feeling so desperate, Neil stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and remembers about the money he accepted in a moment of weakness. He takes the bills out and holds them clutched in his hand a few inches away from Tommy's face.

"I don't need your allowance," Neil says, looking at the floor.

"This isn't goddamned allowance!" Tommy almost yells back. He's already starting to fume, and the air between them grows charged by the second.

"I'm not paying you! I'm not your trick!" Tommy is definitely yelling now, as Neil keeps standing, his arm held out, like a beggar.

Tommy's expression is a mix of hurt and anger, and it would please Neil beyond belief, if he didn't know it changed nothing. He shoves the money back into his pocket and huffs, exasperated.

"Next time slather your asshole before calling me, cause I'm going to fuck the shit out of you. And you might even want to say thank you, cause you're obviously full of it." He mumbles under his breath, but loud enough for Tommy to hear it.

Tommy chuckles, his eyebrows raised and mouth slightly open in amusement. And then he finishes it all.

"I have no business left in New York," he answers and shrugs.

The elevator stops on their floor with a soft 'ding'. Before the doors open, Tommy turns around and starts walking back to his room.

Once downstairs, Neil doesn't leave. He flops down on a sofa and waits. Less than ten minutes later, crowd in the lobby stirs and starts turning their heads.

Preceded by a hotel security, a tall, burly, viking-faced blond appears, marching straight to the front entrance, his hand holding a mobile phone glued to his ear. A soft, good-natured smile graces his face, and Neil's ear catches words "daddy" and "home". He is followed by an enormous, bear-like old man who walks, scanning the crowd with cold, wily eyes, and waving briefly at the people greeting him. Tommy closes this mini-procession, swaggering forth in his ridiculous tracksuit that looks like he slept in it, its hood pulled low over his eyes, and the battered duffel bag bounces against his hip as he goes.

He walks on, looking straight in front of himself, ignoring the few people asking for autographs, as if oblivious to reality. Aligning with the spot where Neil's been waiting, Tommy flashes him a disapproving look from under lowered eyelids, a brief, embarrassed stare that makes the memories of this morning wash over Neil's body. Tommy quickly looks away, his face as blank as ever. Three more steps, and he disappears behind the revolving door.

Neil stares at the sporadic camera flashes outside, at two porters conversing quietly near the door that just stopped rotating. The anger has left him. He is exhausted, feeling empty, detached from his own body. However, it's not as bad as the rape aftermath, and he keeps reminding himself that he might be queer, but he is tough. After a moment's hesitation, he takes out his phone and deletes Tommy's number and his call from the memory.

Gradually, a deep sadness at what can't be changed is welling up in his heart, and quietly he begins to regret the last three days, and wishes they never happened.


	4. Epilogue

So they watched a rerun on ESPN – Neil, crouched over his English homework on the floor, and Wendy, brushing her red hair on the old bed in their cramped apartment.

They saw the arena. Two figures collided under the blinding lights. One of them eventually fell to the white floor to never get back up, the other one acknowledged the raging crowd with a brief nod, and quickly marched out of the cage, not looking back.

Then, Wendy went to the kitchenette to make tea, and Neil watched the interview with the champion's father, who also happened to be his trainer, and had previously struck Neil as cold and wile.

"Was it the guy?" Wendy asked from the kitchen.

"What, in the cage? Yeah..." Neil said, returning to his homework.

"How was he?" she pushed on.

Neil heard water pour from the kettle into the mug.

"He won," he said, tracing the words in the notebook with his finger, as if it could help him better understand what he was reading.

"No. I mean how he was, – you know?" Wendy asked, entering the room, two mugs in her hands.

She sat down on the bed and placed the tea on the old coffee table. Neil picked up his book and flopped down on the mattress next to her. Wendy handed him the tea. It was boiling hot and smelled of herbs.

"He was okay," he said and shrugged. "Straight."

"Oh," she nodded, and stared at the screen for a long second, mulling over Neil's words.

Neil expected her to say something, but she kept silent. The rerun of the championship's best moments was soon replaced with the commercials of aftershave, and Wendy switched off the TV. Neil returned to his reading, and the room fell quiet.

"I thought you'd stopped hustling," Wendy said suddenly.

"I did," Neil answered, embarrassed.

He moved closer and slid an arm around Wendy's thin shoulders. She sat there, not looking at him, her body stiff as a piece of wood.

"I just really like the way the things have been for the past couple of months," she croaked, and Neil froze as he realized she was crying.

"I never thought I'd see you go to college," she continued, speaking into the fabric of his t-shirt. "I lost hope of seeing you ever paying your rent."

She snorted, and they both laughed. Neil felt color flooding his cheeks.

"I'm just scared that one day we'll be back to the square one."

"Me too." Neil looked her straight in the eye. "I don't know how it's going to be, but I'm really trying."

Wendy relaxed against his chest.

"Who on Earth majors in English?" she said after a moment's silence.

"I am," Neil answered and reopened his book.

"And I've meant to tell you...this boyfriend of yours looks kinda scary."

"That's the cage persona." Neil's eyes did not leave the page, but his shoulders tensed. "He's actually kinda nice."

Wendy gave him a sidelong look.

"Somebody's got hots for a redneck Rocky offspring," she sang, shaking her head.

"He's a city boy. He grew up in Pittsburgh." Neil played nervously with his pen. "For your information, there are actual books written about him."

"He's still a redneck, though."

"Says a girl from Hutchinson, KS."

"Wow! You must be really into him!" she huffed out, offended by Neil's refusal to play along. "Like he's gonna give you a call anytime now. Is he?"

"No," Neil answered and moved aside, as she stood up and lifted the bed cover to crawl under it.

"I'm sorry it ended this way, if he really _is_ nice, as you say." She held out a hand, cold fingers brushing over Neil's forearm. "I want you to be happy."

Neil's palm covered her wrist and stayed there, a warm, reassuring weight.

The room fell silent. Now that the TV was off, Neil would be lost in his reading for another hour. Wendy pulled the comforter up to her chin and tried to fall asleep, in spite of the light.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank-you to immoral-crow for support and inspiration.


End file.
